


Wounded

by Torched22



Category: The Blacklist (US TV)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Punishment, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-07-20 13:40:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19993129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torched22/pseuds/Torched22
Summary: Liz is busy brewing over her shattered relationship with Red when she gets word that he is missing. Last known to be in Paris, she sees the possibility of saving him as a means of redeeming their dying dynamic.





	1. Chapter 1

Everything after Asia was a struggle. 

Of course, life hadn’t had a sense of normalcy ever since the day she had laid eyes upon him in the box at the Post Office. They had found a rhythm though, something akin to a chess match but with life and death stakes.

On the run they grew closer than ever. 

At night, when she closed his eyes and focused, really focused, she could feel the weight of his presence. Smell the final notes of his complex cologne. Hear the vibrato in the deepest notes of his voice. His face was burned into her mind, for better or worse, and it arose when she fell into unconsciousness. 

She knew going into their arrangement at the very beginning that he was dangerous. It was always her intent to peel back his layers. The more she learned, the more she realized she didn’t know. His secrets, especially as they pertained to her, were of paramount importance. 

On more than occasion she had asked herself if she could live with never knowing the truth. It was like shaking a broken magic 8 ball though, the answer always came up ‘no.’ 

No, she could not live in the dark. She could not swallow his truths as the truth without choking to death. So she dug and fought and risked both her life and sanity to pry his secrets from him. But rather than the frightened face of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar - when she had accosted him in Asia, revealed what she knew - he seemed none too surprised. 

The goose was indeed succulent, but even the best food couldn’t distract her from her failure. 

Liz sat at the bar and considered the most recent events as she stared into the golden brown pool of bourbon at her fingertips. The clouds outside rumbled angrily as if they were a physical manifestation of her inner turmoil. Rain hurtled towards the ground and smacked against the panes of glass looking out upon the street. 

“Ilya,” the name felt slippery between her lips. She whispered it to herself and recalled with fresh bitterness the excitement she had felt at finally finding out who Raymond Reddington was. 

Too bad it didn’t fit.

She wanted to shove this puzzle piece into place, even if it meant cutting off an edge or two. But the picture that the finished puzzle made was disjointed and felt wrong. Why would he remain Reddington after the plan to steal the money worked? It made no sense to choose an identity fraught with complications rather than returning to one’s original identity. 

Which could only mean that Red wasn’t Ilya. 

Did that make Dom a liar? Was he another victim of Red’s many ruses, or was he playing a game of his own? 

It made her head hurt. It made her long for the simpler days when she believed Sam was her father. 

“You look terrible,” a familiar voice floated over shoulder and she turned. 

“How did you find me here?” 

“We’re FBI aren’t we?” Samar sat down the stool next to her that a tall and handsome man had been angling for. She didn’t know whether to be grateful that she wouldn’t have to make small talk, or frustrated by the loss of what would have happened after that small talk. 

“You look like you haven’t slept in a month.”

“I probably haven’t. Maybe longer. Maybe I haven’t really slept in five years,” she took a long draw from the glass tumbler.

“So what’s next?” 

Liz shook her head, searching for an answer and coming up with none. 

“Long term? I don’t know what’s next. “Short term...honestly...I’d like to get laid.” 

The other woman smiled, genuinely caught off guard and loving it, a chuckle bubbled up her throat and past her rose-rouged lips. 

She looked around and then back at Liz. “Did I ruin your chances?” 

Liz must have had far too much to drink because she seriously considered saying something akin to, ‘depends, what are your plans for the rest of the night?’ 

Samar’s presence was comforting, her friendship a steady anchor in the sea of chaos that Red had created. They had remained close throughout the various trials and tribulations of the past several years and Liz was grateful for it. Samar was there, in the gaping void between Tom’s security and her sister’s presence, keeping her a bit more sane than she would have been otherwise. 

“I’ve never seen that look on you before,” Samar said, snapping Liz out of her thoughts.  
As soon as the words were processed, Liz slipped a mask of pleasant indifference over her face. I was something she had learned from Red...how to look devoid of emotion. Before him, she had worn every fleeting feeling on her face for the world to see. 

“How many of those have you had exactly?” she eyed the empty glass in Liz’s hand.

“Both not enough and too many.” 

“How are things between you and Reddington?” 

Liz wished for a cyanide capsule and swift death. 

“Icy.” 

“I will never understand your dynamic.” 

“You and me both.” 

“I take it he’s pissed at finding out you were the one who betrayed him.” 

“Of course. And to make matters worse, when he told me that he’d lost Dembe because of it...it hurt.” 

Six years ago she wouldn’t have given a shit about hurting Red, now she recalled her words to him in the prison. 

“I love you.” 

Three words that she could neither ignore nor take back. Three words spoken because he was set to die. And how would she have lived with herself after that? If he had died and that blood was on her hands. 

According to Red’s code, she deserved to die now for crossing him. And the scary thing was that she didn’t disagree.

For the first time since the two had met, he had looked at her with blank eyes, a current of hatred running hot beneath the surface. If she were anyone else, her corpse would have been carted out of his safehouse and left somewhere to rot.

After he proclaimed in that familiar gravel voice that he could never trust her again…

She had walked away numbly. The prospect of him being lost forever to her was too overwhelming. Her stomach had knotted and her throat closed. Fat tears rolled and rolled and wouldn’t stop carving wet tracks down her red cheeks.

As she had gotten home that night - the night that she’d told Red that she had betrayed him - she shut the front door and hyperventilated behind it. 

It was impossible to find relief in alcohol or sleep or distractions of any sort. Instead, she lay on her bed for hours, shaking and crying until there were no tears left. 

The only thing that made her feel better was the slip of cool metal in her hand. She had control when the blade was in her hand. 

After so many years, she knew how to hide it well, but that night was particularly awful. It led to careless decisions. Angry red slits that wept red tears. She had ruined her comforter and didn’t even care. The thought of being permanently out of his orbit was unbearable. She cried, and her arms did too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive me for this one...I am on hormones and it is very clearly making me quite...apt to write scenes like these...

After the bar, Liz had caught a ride home. The roads shone with the reflective coating of rain and headlights and buildings and street lamps coalesced into a Van Gogh-like painting outside the cab’s window. 

She knew that she would be in for a fierce hangover tomorrow, but it was worth it. It was the punishment she felt she deserved. For now, she drifted in the mellow haze of near drunkenness, letting the hum of the engine and the bumps in the road lull her into a trance. 

Like a shopping cart with broken wheels steering only in one direction, her thoughts gravitated towards Red. It was moments like these, the unspoken snatches of time harbored in the darkness, that she thought of him most. Even the furthest away memories came flooding back with crystal-cut clarity. She mentally flipped through his catalog of smiles. There was the one reserved for the conclusion of an enthralling story. And the smile for when she made him laugh - that was one of the best. And then there was the smile that never touched his lips, but warmed his eyes instead. That was the most dangerous one of all - it had weight and heat behind it and spoke of something unspoken. 

She was so far buried in day dreams that the cabbie had to twist his body and tell her they’d arrived once the car came to a stop. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out cash and paid him before unsteadily climbing out of the vehicle.

The space was quiet, dark, empty. Agnes was in good hands. Better hands than hers. 

She tried not to think about that as she made her way through the space towards her bedroom. The bed sat, inviting, large, and welcoming, so she flopped down on it unceremoniously. Her new comforter was nice, subtle, colored in ways that didn’t remind her of Red. He slept in egyptian cotton sheets, blues and grays for quilts and comforters. 

Her bed was newly shifted to plum and aqua colors, the old gray plaid comforter in a dump somewhere with her blood upon it. She turned her head and breathed into the pillows. 

Meera had ruined her chances at going home with someone, but that was alright. She valued that friendship more than a one night stand. And in not bringing a strange man home, she wouldn’t have to admit to herself that she tended to bring home guys who were disturbingly similar looking to Red. 

None of them measured up though. Their gazes weren’t penetrating, their voices were void of the tone that rattled her ribcage, their hands were too soft, their tongues too dull. 

She wadded up the pillow beneath her and ground her hips into the bed without thinking. Pretending to be Red’s daughter for so long made her stomach turn sour. They had both pretended, lied, deceived. They weren’t so different after all. He had turned her into a facsimile of himself and hated himself for it - but she couldn’t imagine being any other way. 

Her groan was muffled by the soft down and the buzz in her blood travelled south. It wasn’t often that she allowed herself to fantasize about Red...it only strengthened the emotional bond she had to him. Since her betrayal, he had made it abundantly clear on multiple occasions that his affections weren’t returned. 

He couldn’t even stand to look at her. He didn’t return her messages often, and when he did, they were short and had an air of finality that made her feel despondent and unwanted. 

Coping with the silence wasn’t something Liz did well. As depressed as she was, it was a little too easy to pull out her laptop and flip it open. 

You know that you have a problem with porn when you have familiarized yourself with certain x-rated key phrases and you know what’ll happen next in the videos you frequent too often. But she got out the laptop regardless and allowed her fingers to take her to darker places. 

When she was nice and worked up, she flipped the screen closed and reached across her bed to the nightstand. Liz’s favorite toy waited inside, clean and sleek and purple. Lube was not a concern at this point since she could feel her already soaked panties sliding between her legs. 

Her heart beat picked up even more as she imagined Red in the room with her, perhaps sitting in a chair in the corner with an appraising and hungry gaze. What would he think if he could see her now? A guilty flush of rose tinting her cheeks and traveling down her neck. Her hands hastily peeling off clothing and discarding it anywhere. 

She lay naked on her bed, panting, seeing him as clear as day in her mind’s eye - watching her. 

Would he be able to just sit and watch if he were there? Or would he stand and cross the small space, grabbing her by the ankles and drawing her down the bed. He would be forceful in some ways and gentle in others. He would consume her like a fine meal, a delicacy that should be savored on his tongue and seared into his senses. 

He would part her legs harshly only to stand at the edge of the bed and plant kisses on her ankles, run his hands over her calves, nip at the sensitive flesh behind her knees. His eyes would look upon her - hooded and filled with a glint of feral madness. And being the controlled creature he was, he would lavish her with attention, no matter how angrily his erection strained against his trousers. 

She wanted him all dressed up in that black three piece Brioni suit, staring down at her body clothed only in a fine sheen of sweat. That thought alone could drive her over the edge. 

He would let his hands traverse the hills and valleys of her body. The swell of her breast, the dip of her navel. Like a lost man searching for redemption through the feel of flesh, he would let his eyes graze over her sex, swollen and glistening with arousal. She would move to touch herself and he would grab her wrists and pinion them above her head. 

Reality threatened to break the illusion. Her mind supplying that she wasn’t enough, not even worthy of his time. Not worthy of the bullet that had her name on it. He had told her once, “I have my life. I have chosen my path, Lizzie.” She wanted to shake him and scream, “get off your fucking path and come get me. I’m yours. I always have been. I’m better than the path you’re on, I’m worth the deviation, let me prove it to you.” But the words lived and died in her chest, unable to rise up and combat his notion of what he thought he wanted.  
When it was too late...when they were old and broken...that’s when he would realize all that he had and lost. Maybe on his deathbed he would finally see how she burned for him, how she would bring the world to its knees for him, that she would live and die for him. 

Forcefully, she pushed reality away and wrapped herself back up in the fantasy. 

Red’s hands gripped her wrists so tightly that she would feel the coursing blood shake her whole body. Her thighs rubbed together, seeking some relief, but nothing could satisfy that emptiness she felt at her core. Being the sadistic bastard he was, he would get her to the point of insanity and insist on her begging. She wouldn’t relent for a long time...and would...perhaps...come entirely untouched. She had done it before - on more than one occassion.

She whispered his name aloud and it came out broken and begging. 

This was how she spent her nights. 

Did he know that?

Did he care?

Would he care if he were suddenly here? Transported into the sanctuary of Lizzie’s bedroom, watching her writhe on the bed and ground out his name between her clenched teeth. If he could feel that love for one minute, one second, would he be able to turn away? To return to the cold indifference that had become his calling card?

She would show it to him, even if it killed her. Red wasn’t allowed to shed his mortal coil before staring her in the face, in person, and witnessing everything she was offering and everything he was turning down. 

“Fuck you,” she spat angrily. 

Resistance would only garner pain and he would cover her body with his and crane to kiss and bite at her neck until the skin there threatened to break. She would buck against him, if only to get the friction and feel the soft fabric of his suit whispering over her skin. 

He was no stranger to handcuffs, but he wouldn’t put her in them, not at first. He would command her to keep her arms and wrists in place, even as he let go. An exercise in trust, in dominance, in willingness. 

Still, not having yet been kissed on the lips, he would trail hot kisses down her neck and along her collarbone. Large calloused hands would skat up her sides and come to grasp her breasts, soft at first. He would indulge each with kisses and licks on the skin around each nipple, driving her wild with anticipation. And finally when he would kiss and lick the sensitive buds, bringing them to a point one at a time, he would temper the pleasure with pain, squeezing them hard enough to bruise. More kissing and kneading would soothe the hurt, only to lead to sharp bites and tugs with his teeth that would have her melting into a puddle of discordant sounds. 

Her hips couldn’t stay on the bed and she would have to plant a kiss on the top of his hair just to kiss him at all. Her wrists remained in place, strapped by an invisible barrier that was pure torture. 

“God, Red, please…” 

Shit. She’d beg. 

He would lift his head, eyes boring into her soul, responding to her kiss to his crown with, “yes Lizzie? Did you need something?” 

The beg would have already slipped out, so why stop?

“Fuck me.”

“Do you realize what you’re asking for?” 

“Yes. Please….six years of foreplay is six years too many.” 

“Is it? I was aiming for thirteen.” 

“Fuck, you’re going to kill me.” 

“Probably.”

He hovered so close and she strained to kiss him but he pulls away. Frustration claws up her throat and comes out as a grunt. Her hands shake now with the effort to keep them still. It’s harder to breathe and the room tilts as his hands slide back down her body and quickly turn her onto her stomach. 

Now she can’t see him, can’t anticipate what’s coming next, so she turns her head He gathers her hair into one fistful and kisses the back of her neck, then pulls her head to face forward. 

“No looking Lizzie.” 

The way he says her name is enough to warrant a heart attack. As soon as she hears that word, teeth dragging on the z’s, she feels herself grow wet to the point of dripping. Beaded moisture is sliding around her thigh. 

He backs off her and she feels nothing for a long second, and then another, and another. The urge to turn her head, to say something, is overwhelming, but she resists. 

“Such a good girl,” he purrs right against her lower back, right into her spine. Her hands grasp the comforter beneath them and satisfaction sings through her being at hearing the words. 

Liz had never considered herself a submissive before and probably couldn’t be for anyone other than Red. It was hard to tell though, if this was heaven or hell. 

His hands and mouth wouldn’t stop their traveling assault. Fingertips went from her ankles to the tops of her thighs in feather like movements only to travel back down with digging nails. A whimper came out this time. 

Then those hands would cup her ass and squeeze each cheek before offering kisses and nips. 

“Can I move my hands?” arms still stuck above her head, despite the move.

“No.” 

His fingers parting her thighs, splaying her wide open for his hungry gaze. Something like embarrassment would shoot up her spine at being so wholly split open. 

“Reddddd,” her head tilting, turning to the left. 

A harsh slap to her right ass cheek. Unexpected. A squeal coming out of her lips as her head snapped straight once more. 

“You deserve punishment Lizzie...not just for moving your head, but so much more.” 

Slap. The sound of flesh on flesh reverberating around the room and coming back to a light-headed Liz. She didn’t know whether she should feel humiliated or aroused as another palm met with her reddening skin. 

Her Red skin. 

“Please….” 

More begging. So pathetic. 

His hands hooking around the tops of her thighs and pulling her even further down the bed, her legs still spread out, knees at her sides. Those hands disappeared. All contact disappeared, but his presence didn’t. She could feel his eyes devouring her. 

“Red…” she shuddered. 

His breath grazed her asshole and lips, hot at first and then cooling because of how slick she was. 

“Do something...anything…”

“Anything?” 

“Yesssss” 

“Do you feel empty without me inside of you Lizzie?”

The question elicited a long groan in response and if her nails were longer, the comforter would have been torn. Just the thought was enough to make her shudder. 

“Need you inside of me Red. Fuck...pleaseeeee” 

Her voice sounded unfamiliar and distraught. A sucking sound, a pop, his finger coming to the top of her ass and sliding down until it found the tight, puckered hole. 

Of course. Of course he would bypass her slick desperation for him and opt for her ass. Pain. Preparation. She couldn’t even bear the thought of waiting. A finger pushed past the ring of muscle and she groaned. Right hand angled, wrist resting on her right ass cheek, his breath back at her slick. His mouth on her sex as his fingers pried her ass open. His spit wouldn’t do, but she was plenty wet, so he gathered up her juices and used them for his ministrations. 

Her legs shook. His mouth parted her pussy, very gently sucked and nipped at her outer lips before kissing the inner lips. Hyperventilation was a real possibility now.

“Re...red...I…” the words died. What would there be to say at this point? 

This was inevitable. Fate. Perfection. His tongue, the same one that licked his lips after consuming tiramisu and delivered death sentences, slipped inside of her and she rocked back on it. 

The fingers never stopped. Now there were three stretching her open, but the pain was eclipsed by pleasure. “I’m going to fuck you now Lizzie,” everything disappeared and she whined at the loss. 

He would haul her up the bed, grasp her hair and pull her head back, neck taut, as he pulled her hips up to fuck her. Unsteady forearms threatened to unravel the events, but she would force them to cooperate. Red was going to fuck her. Finally.  
He lined his cock up with her ass and slipped the head of his cock inside of her, then out. He would go in further each time, letting her body adjust to the large intrusion. Every nerve of her body was on fire and sweat now rolled into the valley created between her upturned ass and her straining shoulders. 

Her body sang with every thrust and his balls smacked her clit with every thrust. This wasn’t going to last long. Breathing became a ragged afterthought. She was stretched to her limits, filled entirely with his length that throbbed inside of her. She could feel his heartbeat through it and orgasm barreled towards her. 

Vision swimming, her muscles tensed, her arms tingled, arousal uncoiled in her clit and made her inner walls spasm as a stunningly long orgasm rolled through her entire body. No time to recover, he would turn her on her back and run a shaky hand over his cock to poorly attempt to clean it off before shoving it, full force, into her pussy. A strong hand grabbing her jaw, his eyes as vast as the ocean itself as he stared into her eyes before plundering her mouth with their first kiss. 

Finally getting to kiss him, his lips moving against hers as his tongue (which still tasted like her arousal) fucked her mouth...it was too much. Another orgasm sizzled through her body as he started to come inside of her, this time, her walls wrapping around him tightly and milking his come. 

“Lizzie…” he said brokenly into her ear as his hot, broken breaths rushed over the hickey he had marked her with. 

Liz struggled to catch her breath, to grapple with the threat of reality crashing back into her with full force. She could stay there forever. Wrapped in solid warm arms. His breath racing over her. HIs body plastered to hers. Come dripping from her still swollen lips and trickling down her thigh. 

Except there were no arms. 

No breath. 

No come but her own. 

The purple toy lay on the bed, angrily cast aside, and she cried herself to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning was every bit as painful as Liz anticipated it to be. She was woken up early, before the sun had even graced the landscape. It was a roil of nausea that had her stumbling from her bed and chasing the path to her toilet in the darkness.

Her heartbeat drummed deafeningly loud in her ears as she flipped the toilet lid up and gripped the porcelain. 

It was a full hour of sitting on the cold tile before she could even consider moving to a more vertical position. Every movement sent a rush of blood to hear head that stabbed behind her eyes. 

Red’s bullet with her name on it seemed like a swift and wonderful way out of the hell that she had found herself in. Now would be a good time.

On shaking hands she stood. The clean white lines of subway tile that graced the walls seemed to shift along with her. Thirsty, she pulled back her hair and turned on the faucet, drinking directly from it. When her stomach threatened to turn once more, she stopped, panting, face in the sink.

A night light was plugged into the wall next to her and emitted a soft yellow light that caught the right side of her face. She dared to look up into the mirror and saw someone reflected back at her that she didn’t know. 

Going back to bed seemed like the reasonable next step, but she felt agitated and dirty. She brushed her teeth hastily and then began walking towards the shower. There were no pajamas to peel off, so she stretched out a hand and turned the water on. 

The faucet sprang to life and steam was already rising in the glass enclosed space. With a gaping yawn, she opened the door and stepped inside. The spray was a shock to the system, water beating down upon her stress-filled shoulders and wrapping around her in a thousand ribbons of liquid comfort. 

When distressed, Liz tended to turn to two things: sleep and absurdly long showers. Well, and porn. And perhaps drinking. And Ben & Jerry’s. You know, the list isn’t really important. 

She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. 

Her hands splayed over her abdomen, one running upwards while the other ran down. Inevitably she ran into her scars and cursed being so pale, it made them stand out so starkly. 

A slippery thought passed over her along with the water and she had a suffocatingly overwhelming desire for Red to take the blade away and kiss each angry slash. She laughed bitterly, the sound reverberating in the shower. 

How many of those very marks were made because of him?

“We’re not friends Liz.”  
“You’re self-centered and over-dramatic.”

“I may never be able to trust you again.”

“I don’t care.” 

“I don’t have the strength to deal with you right now.”

All of his digs, lodged into her chest and festered there, infecting her to the point where she couldn’t stand herself. She missed him with such fierceness that his silence had left a gaping hole in her life. 

Did he know that he was letting her fall, or was she just not worth the rescue? She was falling nonetheless. 

How had he gone from some nobody to the person who knew her the best. And without him, was there anyone out there that knew her at all? He had seen her soul and closed his eyes against her. He was a lifeline, whether he liked it or not, and she withered away without him. 

Ten minutse passed. Then twenty. Then thirty and forty. 

If it weren't for the trill of her phone sounding off in the bedroom, she may have stayed in the watery trance for another twenty minutes. Her skin was red and angry from the searing heat of the water and she wasn’t too eager to step out into the brisk air that waited outside the glass cocoon. 

She thought about not answering it, butt decided against it. Like ripping off a bandaid, she emerged, wrapped a teal towel around herself and headed into the bedroom.

Her hand was wet and the phone nearly slipped from her hand. Dembe’s face stared back at her from the icon on the call screen. She answered, knowing immediately that something was wrong. 

“Dembe?” 

“Liz…”

“What is it. Is...is he alright?” 

She heard him swallow. 

“I don’t know. I have lost track of him.”

“Well, usually that wouldn’t raise your concern for him...disappearing is what he does best, isn’t it?” she said with spite in her voice. 

“It is. But..I found blood splatter on the street. He told me he was going to that location to meet someone and that he should be back in an hour. He never came back.” 

“Shit. Wait, what location?” 

“We’re in Paris.” 

“Of course,” she started moving to grab her go bag and shove some last minute items into it. The towel had slipped off her hips and she rushed around naked. “You couldn’t be somewhere close and convenient could you?” 

“Afraid not.”

“I’ll be on the first flight I can catch,” she hauled open a drawer and pulled out some clothes to put on.

“Do you know who he was meeting with?” 

Pause.

“No.” 

“Okay, well, text me where you are and I’ll be there as soon as I can.” 

“Thank you Elizabeth.” 

Click.

She didn’t know whether to be furious or fearful or both. Liz had tried severing her bond to Red over and over again but the thin and resilient line of red fate that had bound them together kept pulling them both back. 

If he would just...just end her like he wanted to...then maybe that red string of fate would finally snap. She hated it when he made her feel unworthy or ten steps behind, but whether he’d ever admit it or not...he both loved and needed her. 

Anxiety bubbled up like hysteria in her chest, but she tamped it down and rushed to the airport. 

In the very furthest recesses of her mind she thought to herself...I can just help him, save him somehow, give him a reason to see me, maybe our fractured relationship can be repaired.   
Despite everything...despite him killing her father, despite lying to her and taking her memories as a child, despite pretending to be her father when he knew that wasn’t true...well...she sought the restoration of their dynamic. He had hurt her, over and over again, but time always seemed to soothe away the sting. 

He was not the forgiving type, but maybe if she came to his aid when he needed it most, he would at least give her the courtesy of returning her messages. 

One thing was certain - she couldn’t bear the silence any longer.


	4. Chapter 4

The flight to Paris was absurdly long and Liz didn't sleep at all. 

Drinks were offered, babies cried, movies played, and the aircraft's engines hummed with its effort. None of it seemed real to Liz though. Like everyone was cast a role in some sort of simulation and she was the only one conscious of being within it. Everyone played their roles, acted their part, carried on the simulation except her and Red and Dembe. Before meeting Red, she had been one of these blissfully unaware people. She could have lived her entire unremarkable life with Tom in suburbia, never becoming wiser. She could have grown and aged and raised kids and had grandkids and lived her days in the steady monotonous drone that everyone else seemed to. 

The problem was that, now having known Red, and the sweet complexity of living life on a higher plane, she couldn't return to the mundane. Her days simply couldn't be about sitting at a desk, making grocery lists, finding some mother's Bunco group or reading club and baking cookies for PTA bake sales. All of that sounded lovely, it really did, but she had her hand on the pulse of the world and made changes that impacted a lot of people at one time. It was too addicting - the smell of gunpowder, the hand-to-hand fights, the intellectual machinations that allowed her to get a step or two or ten ahead of the next nut case.

She glanced over at the woman next to her on the plane reading one of the Fifty Shades books and nearly let a laugh escape. She covered it with a fake cough and dodged a look from the lady. 

'Ordinary people were so desperate to escape their own ordinary-ness,' she thought, checking her watch. 

Was it cocky of her to assume that she wasn't ordinary? Maybe. But being an HSP with a high IQ...well...she never fit in, even from the get-go. As a kid, she had no desire to do the things other kids did, no pension for carrying on the insipid conversations her peers liked to have. She spent time with adults or lost in books, even then, the real world was too dull. But it had been colored at a steep cost. 

Red broke something in her. Or maybe he'd broken her entirely. Shattered her and pieced her together in his image. He made her - and now he didn't want her - how fitting. 

Turbulence rocked the aircraft and the fasten seatbelt sign turned on. She downed the bourbon and coke that sat on the flimsy tray in front of her in one fell swoop, and closed her eyes. A yawn stretched her mouth open in an 'o' but she knew sleep wouldn't come. Unless...peeking one eye open, Liz looked around the tray to the floor in front of her. The black bag that was her purse was wedged beneath the seat in front of her. 

She put her tray up and reached down for the bag. Opening its zippered lips, she reached into the black abyss and pulled out a translucent orange bottle that rattled with pills. 

Why was Xanax invented if not for times like this? She pressed down on the white lid and turned it, reaching in and retrieving one powerful white pill. She popped it into her mouth without ceremony or liquid and swallowed it as she replaced the cap. 

Mrs. Bored Housewife had stopped intently reading her mass marketed erotica long enough to shoot Liz a judgemental look. 

Liz was so tempted to pop another pill, wash it down with another bourbon, order a horror flick, and flip her off. 

===

The Charles de Gaulle airport was a fucking nightmare. It always was. A sinuous maze of corridors and people scurrying about wearing confused looks on their face as French was shouted around her. Welcome to Paris. 

Liz took three years of French in high school, but it hadn't done her much good. She could understand it when it was spoken at a leisurely pace, and she could make out the gist of things when she read it, but conversationally - at a normal pace - she was screwed. 

Luckily, the Xanax was still humming in her veins and an emotionless calm swept through her. When anxiety knocked at the door, Xanax shut the damn door in its face, locked it, and shot rounds through it.

That seemed to be the case more and more for Liz. Either she felt everything, or nothing at all. Feeling nothing was easier, so she often opted for that route. Feeling everything was what had gotten her into profiling in the first place. It was easy for her to step into other people's shoes, construct entire events from clues and conclusions, build fitting dialogue and slip right into situations. She could charm anyone and the scary part was that no one had the slightest clue that for as strong as her visage was on the outside, it was just as shattered on the inside. 

No one knew she was anxious. No one knew about her harming tendencies. No one knew about the depression or PTSD, about the nightmares that had her up and stumbling from bed with a shout at 3am. They were all none the wiser - except for Red. She had told Red what a mess she was, and he'd even chose to use it against her at times. As if this information, given in complete confidence from the tenderest part of Liz's soul, was ammunition in whatever verbal war he could wage.

He used it. He was clever. He knew where to hit and how hard. 

Liz didn't want sympathy for these things, she just wanted a willing ear, a listening human being, who might, on occasion, comfort her. Make her feel as if the air around her wasn't water spilling into her lungs. 

She reached for him and he had left her to drown. 

===

Without Dembe, Liz would have been truly screwed. He spoke French fluently and rescued her from the hordes of tourists that seemed to plague every corner of Paris. His friendly face felt like an anchor and she held on to it. 

His first act was to drive her to his safe house. As she sat next to him, he eyed her suspiciously. She had forgotten a key piece of information, thanks to the Xanax, and tried to recover, but he could probably tell she was medicated. That little white pill really helped push her demons away, but it also made her tired as hell and her memory as dull as a plastic knife. 

She needed all of her wits about her to find Red, so she started guzzling water. 

The safe house was unremarkable. It was an old walk up with a gray stone facade. The streets were narrow and cobbled and other under circumstances, the setting could almost be considered romantic - if you knew nothing of history and how the streets used to run red. 

Red. 

"Lizzie," Dembe was holding the door open for her and she snapped out of her reverie and walked in. 

===

The days were long, but the nights were longer. Sleep was now some distant mirage; an old frienemy that Liz would skim for an hour or two here and there, but she never got any actual rest. How could she? Knowing that Red was out there somewhere, suffering. 

She sat at a table with Dembe, their research spread across the room in a sneeze of paper and hasty notes. The lights were dim and Liz's vision blurred until she swiped at her eyes with her hands. 

One of her first questions three days ago was, 'how do they know Red's still alive?' Dembe answered that by producing photos the captor's had sent of Red holding up that day's newspaper. He truly looked like shit. Bags under his eyes, shirtless with bruises and gashes marring his skin, a split lip, bloodied hands leaving rose petal finger prints along the dirty newspaper's edge. 

The sight sparked something in her chest so powerful that she had to tamp it down rather than analyze it, for the sake of her own sanity. 

The next question she had was, 'what do they want?'

Unfortunately, it was a two-fold answer. They wanted revenge for the fact that Red had gotten their fearless leader killed, and they wanted one very important name on the Blacklist. Their crew had company, another rival group that operated out of Lyon. The leader of that gang was quite a slippery fish - Dembe had plenty of information about the underground gang's dealings, but no leads on who their leader was or what their upcoming plans were. Only Red knew who orchestrated the Lyon group. 

The Paris organization wouldn't kill Red until they could get as much from him as possible, be it money or information or just suffering. 

The suffering was already in play. 

Dembe was gathering money to send them in hopes that a ransom would keep Red alive long enough for them to find. 

And the information? Red would never give it up, no matter what they did to him, and as soon as they realized that and had their money - he'd be dead. 

They had to work fast. 

She and Dembe had spent hours doing recon and following up on people's whereabouts. After three excruciatingly long days, they finally had a lead. After realizing that the Paris group had a big deal coming up and couldn't leave Paris, they started to scour the city for where their hideout might be. Ten spots were whittled down to five, then three, then two. They had spent an entire night watching both spots and realized that both were hot. Red could be at either one. 

They were at a standstill then, on the fourth night. They had to rescue him on the fifth night, or he'd be dead. 

Dembe got them part of the money they'd asked for and assured them that he too knew about the Lyon group's leader. That he would give up the information and the rest of the money in exchange for Red. They agreed.

It was bullshit. Liz knew that they either knew Dembe was bluffing, that they'd take Dembe and torture him, threaten his death until Red spilled. Or they believed Dembe, and thought they'd get the info and the money and in the end, just kill both Dembe and Red. Their plan was not to let Red just walk out of their hellish den. 

What made the group even more deplorable was that they dealt in human trafficking as well as drugs. They were life ruining scum, right down to the core, and she wanted to kill them, all of them. Partly because they'd hurt Red, but mostly because they'd hurt so many others. 

Glossy faces stared up at her from the table and her stomach turned. Some were just kids. 

She gathered the photos and shoved them back into the file from which they came. The flics were on this group for years, over a decade, but when they cut off one head, another arose like a Hydra. 

"You can't kill them all," Dembe said, standing, sipping a glass of water, apparently reading Liz's mind.

She looked up at him through tired eyes. "No, I know." 

"But you want to. You're thinking about it." 

She shook her head and he pushed a plate of food towards her. 

"What you should be doing now is taking care of yourself," he eyed the untouched sandwich on the plate. "You will need your strength. You know that only four of us will be going into that place to retrieve him."

"Which place?" Liz asked, holding two photos in her hands. "He could be in either." 

"We must pick one and pick carefully," Dembe swallowed. "It was smart of them to have the money drop off point be a public, unrelated place. All they use are burner phones and there are no details in the photos to give us hints."

"Once they got the money, they brought it back here," she shook the photo in her left hand. 

"But that doesn't mean anything." 

"No, it doesn't." 

"So which one is Red at?" 

"We don't have enough time to figure that answer out. We have to move or he'll be dead." 

"If he isn't already," she mumbled.

Part of her wanted to simply...walk away...let go...get back on a plane tomorrow and pretend none of this even happened. How would Red feel if she were to leave him in his time of need? Abandon him as he had abandoned her so many times? Just when she needed him the most...just when the world began caving in...

He was always about being ten steps ahead, yet, when she tried to get ten steps ahead of him - that was going too far. But he had made her, what did he expect? She had used what he'd taught her against him and that - what? - surprised him? 

Even through his tough exterior, she could tell that she scared the shit out of him. She was karma come to life. She was the wrath of the abandoned. She was intellect and fire and passion incarnate and if she didn't care about him as much as she did - if she wanted to turn those forces against him - well, he'd be in trouble. But what he apparently didn't realize, was that however shitty he was to her, she would never destroy him - never. His mark was on her, in her somehow, and it wasn't coming out.

"We only have tomorrow to gather our supplies and finalize our plans and all of that depends on which location we choose." 

She just looked at him, then looked away, moulding into her chair with a sigh. 

He looked at her for a long moment and then spoke into his glass, "you love him." The words fell loudly in the quiet room.

Her eyes went wide and her heart stuttered in her chest. Was it true? Did she love him or hate him? Was it possible to do both? He knew her better than anyone, either revelation should be no surprise to Red. She was attracted to him, but 'love' was pretty strong, and there were many types of love. 

She laughed nervously. "Red? Red has saved my life tenfold and I owe it to him to get him out of this." 

"Is that all?" 

"You really think now is the time to delve into this?" she asked, eyebrows raised. 

"You tell him that he doesn't care," Dembe said without answering the question. "But the truth is, he runs from you because he does care. He catches himself gravitating towards you and it scares him. To him, loving you is a weakness, a chink in his armor. While you see caring about him as a strength. You'd do anything for him, die for him even, and he won't even answer you with a paragraph of text in an email. He postures that you are not worth his time or energy, when in reality, you are the break in monotony that could very well nurture his sanity. He wants you, down to his core, down to his soul, he wants you." 

Liz's lips were parted and her breath nonexistent, she had been holding it. 

Eyebrows furrowed she asked, "and he's... what, told you this?"

"No," Dembe set the glass down. 

"But has it occurred to you that he doesn't want to see you, doesn't want to offer you closure, because he himself doesn't want this closed? You asked if you could say goodbye to him before he left the FBI, before he left for Paris, and he said maybe..."

"...but didn't show..."

"Because closure isn't what he wants. If he wanted it, he'd show up to say goodbye and leave your life for good." 

"Closure is what I needed from him," she muttered.

"He apparently doesn't care what you need."

"Yeah, well, he needs me now that he's in trouble, doesn't he? Why should I care about what he needs? About his rescue?" 

"Because all you are is an empath, all you know how to do is care too much, and you will die trying to save him if you have to." 

"I hate that," she barely whispered. "He's stone cold and I'm fire and I'm the one who always comes away looking weak." 

"You are not weak Lizzie," he pulled out a chair and sat. "You are so strong that strength emanates from you, if only you'd see your own power and believe in yourself. Caring about others doesn't make you weak. Wanting to do whatever it would take to get the answers that Red has refused you doesn't make you a traitor. He has pushed you away for now, but...he pulls towards you just as strongly as you pull towards him, he's just better at hiding it, he's just better at keeping himself busy so that it doesn't plague him like it does you." 

He put a hand on her arm and she couldn't help but make a micro expression of a wince from all of the cuts hiding there beneath her sleeve.

"I asked him if I should go away forever, disappear from his life. He talks about me being inexplicably drawn back to him, yet he didn't answer 'yes,' either. Maybe it's out of pity - and I don't want his pity. I want him to give a damn."

"He does give a damn. He didn't answer because you're a part of him, whether he likes it or not."

"Not. He hates it. He hates me for it."

"He doesn't hate you. He hates himself. He hates this weakness." 

"I don't want to be like a cancer to him," tears threatened to spill from her eyes. "I don't want to be a plague to him." 

"You're not," Dembe assured, his hand anchoring. "You're frustrating, because you're unattainable, and believe it or not - he does see you. He sees your intelligence, your talent, your drive, he knows that you're different, and he can't have it. And that's angering." 

This time, a tear did make a run for it and slipped down her porcelain cheek. 

"He has nothing he can share with you. You have everything to share with him. He hides his feelings in anger and in pushing you away. You are hurt from that, and reach out even more. He feels suffocated and retreats even further. Even if you hadn't 'betrayed' him," he used air quotes around betrayed, "he would have found some other reason to push you away. Something, anything. 'It's too dangerous, you're too needy,' whatever he could use." 

"Why?" 

"To save himself." 

"From what? Having me as a friend? Yeah, what a burden." 

"No...to save himself from feeling what you feel."

"And what do I feel?" 

"I don't know, but I know that it hurts enough for you to medicate yourself, to hurt yourself, to cry, to put yourself in dangerous situations, to have unprotected sex with strangers, to stop feeling completely."

She stared at the table, at nothing in particular. Her face burned red and her heart skipped and skipped and skipped. She wondered if she might pass out or cease to exist completely. How easy would that be? No more anxiety, no more anything. 

"Have you said anything like any of this to Red?" 

"No. Nor would I. He does not respond to things like this as you do. His reaction would be..."

"Anger. Denial. Diversion." 

"Yes." 

"I feel like his name written inside of me and I can't get it off."

"Then learn to live with it." 

She gulped, fidgeting. 

"If he never forgave me. If he never spoke to me again..." more tears fell. "That'd be it for me. I'd be done." 

"With what? Life?" 

She remained silent, her lips pursed shut. 

"I can't lose him and keep my..." words were failing. 

"What? Sanity?" 

"No...I dont' know...there isn't a word for it. All I know is that it's like I'm standing in the middle of a frozen lake, and it's cracking. And if he would just reach out. Just be there for me. Just as a friend. Just say goodbye to me. Then the ice won't crack and I won't fall in. But the ice is cracking. And I see him there, standing on the edge of the lake - safe - just...watching me...waiting for me to plunge into it. And the expression on his face is just...nothing at all." 

"He doesn't want the responsibility of saving you...even if saving you only means a kind word or texting you or something easy."

"He may not want it, but he has it. It is easy. So easy. And he still just chooses to stolidly stand and watch me fall. All the while thinking to himself...'better her than me.'"

Dembe clenched his jaw and his hand tightened around Liz's wounded arm. 

"There are others out there who won't let you fall." 

She smiled a sad smile. 

"What if I've already fallen?"


End file.
